


like looking straight into the sun

by brandonsaad (createadisaster)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/createadisaster/pseuds/brandonsaad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Out with the team?” Claude asks. The sheets rustle again, and Danny can picture him, sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard. Stupid ginger curls a mess. Maybe rubbing his eyes. Danny always loved him this way, all soft around the edges.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about the <i>team</i>,” he says, dropping his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like looking straight into the sun

**Author's Note:**

> so i started this like the day after the habs beat the bruins (maybe the night of?) and then i went on vacation and also just havent been writing a lot so it took a million years to finish but w/e it is done and presented to you all!
> 
> this fic was saved as "brioux phone sex" so i think that tells you everything you need to know about it. like for real it's just. it's porn. it's porn. also danny's in a public bathroom. this is not the classiest thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy it!

When Claude answers the phone, he sounds blurry and mumbly in that way he always does when he’s not quite ready to be awake yet. “Danny? What’s wrong?”

“Did I wake you?” he asks immediately, and turns his body toward the wall a bit, back to the main space of the bar. He’s ducked into the back hallway, body curved away from the noise and the celebrating, phone tucked to his ear.

“No, no, I’m up,” Claude says with great difficulty, and Danny can hear the sheets rustling.

“I woke you,” Danny says, and hears Claude huff out a little laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, still sounding a little sleepy. “It’s okay. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling despite himself. “Sorry your season didn’t—”

“Nope,” Claude cuts him off immediately. “Not doing that. Hey, you scored.”

“Defract—deflocked—deflection,” he says proudly.

Claude starts laughing. It’s warm, familiar. Danny wants to bundle himself up in that laugh and stay there forever. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he says unconvincingly, and starts giggling. “Are you naked?”

It makes Claude laugh again, which is really his goal. “It’s summer in Philly,” he says, which means yes, because Claude always sleeps naked in the summer. It’s one of Danny’s many, many favorite things about him. “Where are you? Are you still in Boston?”

“No, I’m home,” Danny says, and then amends, “Montreal.” He wonders when Claude will get used to it. Wonders when he got used to it.

“Out with the team?” Claude asks. The sheets rustle again, and Danny can picture him, sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard. Stupid ginger curls a mess. Maybe rubbing his eyes. Danny always loved him this way, all soft around the edges.

“I don’t want to talk about the _team_ ,” he says, dropping his voice. He steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. It gets quieter almost immediately, enough to hear Claude’s little intake of breath.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asks slowly. There's a moment of silence punctuated by a satisfied sigh, and Danny pictures him stretching, all pale skin and hard muscle. He wants that sound again. Wants a lot more than that.

"You know what," Danny says, voice low. "Don't you want to congratulate me?"

Claude chuckles and makes a small, pleased noise. "We doing this, then?"

The bathroom is empty, but Danny steps into a stall and locks it anyway. "Tell me what you'd do if you were here," he coaxes. "What you'd let me do to you."

"Tonight's all you, isn't it?" he says, and his voice is amused, promising, and filthy at once. "I'd let you do anything you wanted."

Danny's still in his post-game suit, and he unzips his pants, leaning against the wall of the stall. This is sketchy and reckless and just fucking stupid, but he couldn't wait a moment longer—he's drunk and he's horny and all he wants is Claude. "Your mouth?"

"If that's what you want," Claude drawls. "Want me on my knees?"

Danny lets out a soft noise, thinking of the familiarity, imagining his hands working into those curls and pulling, wishing like hell he could have Claude with him _now_.

"You could fuck my mouth if you wanted," Claude continues, and gives a telling little moan.

"You touching yourself?" Danny asks, and switches the phone to his left hand so he can lick the palm of his right and wrap it around his cock.

There's a pause, and Danny notes, with no small satisfaction, that Claude has stilled his hand. "Can I?"

" _Yes_ ," Danny says, and Claude's relieved groan goes straight to his dick. Danny gives his dick a few slow, steady pulls before picking up the pace, and, quite honestly, for the moment, he’s more than content to just listen to Claude.

Claude’s always so _eager_ , is the thing—he’s so sensitive to every touch, lets out these little gasps and moans at the tiniest stimulations. He’s loud, and Danny fucking loves it.

Danny’s just laid him out on their bed before, pressed kisses to his ribcage and thighs and jaw just to listen to the way his breath would hitch. And now, five hundred miles away, it’s so easy to lean back against the stall and close his eyes and just _listen_ , like he’s still right there.

Like now, Claude is making these soft little noises, more akin to whimpers than moans, and he says, “Danny, _talk_ to me,” like he’s desperate for it, like he needs to hear Danny’s voice.

So Danny talks.

“You’re fucking beautiful, you know,” he says, and he’s fully aware how conversational he sounds, as though he’s not already out of his mind with how badly he wants Claude. “And you’re even prettier when you’re on your knees for me. You look so good with a cock in your mouth, love.”

Claude whimpers, which Danny takes as the best sort of encouragement. 

“I’d fuck your mouth the way you like it,” he adds. 

“You know I’d let you,” Claude says. “Let you do anything you liked to me. You gonna pull my hair? Make me take it?”

Danny can’t help but groan at the thought of it, imagining tangling his fingers in his hair and _yanking,_ because Claude always likes it best when it hurts a little. “You fucking love to take it. I don’t need to _make_ you do anything. You’d _beg_.”

Claude lets out a breathy little laugh, but when he speaks, his voice is low and filthy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Danny. He probably does. “I guess I would, babe. Beg for anything you’d give me.”

It’s a lot to hear and a lot to imagine—Claude does beg so nicely when he’s in the mood for it. He likes to feel like he’s earned it. And Danny’s always willing to oblige him, tease him.

“Is that what you want, Danny?” he asks, dropping his voice. “Do you want to hear me beg for your cock? I will, you know I will, I always want it so bad—”

Danny’s working his own dick with a tight grip and a steady pace, the way Claude likes to do it, and he can picture him, lying with his legs open on the bed they both know so well. It’s a nice image. 

He means to say something dirty, to tell Claude that he has to earn it, that what he’s said isn’t enough just yet, that he needs _more_. Instead he says, “I wish I was with you,” gentler than he’d intended, and of course it’s _that_ that really gets to Claude.

"Are you close?" Claude asks, and his voice is husky and uneven in that way that means _he_ is, and even a little frantic with it. "You could come on my face, or I could swallow—"

"No," Danny decides, and twists his wrist around the head of his dick. "I'm not ready yet. I want to come in your ass, love, flip you over on your hands and knees, fuck you til you cry. Maybe keep going after you've come, I know you like that—"

There's a sharp moan and then an odd muffled thump. Danny can hear the vague sounds of Claude moving.

"Claude?" he asks.

"I dropped the phone," he says. "You can't just _say_ stuff like that."

"The whole point of this is to say stuff like that," Danny reminds him. "Come on. Do you have lube? I want you to fuck yourself, want to hear it."

“Of course I do,” he says, “I’m in my _house_.” Danny laughs at him despite himself.

“Get it,” he tells him. “Get your fingers real wet. Start with one.”

“You know I can take more than one,” Claude says, even as Danny hears the click of a lid snapping open and a telling sigh from Claude. Danny wonders what he’s doing right now, if he’s stopped to run a hand along his ribcage or maybe play with one of his nipples or returned his hand to his dick—Claude gets a little impatient sometimes, and, though Danny loves to see it, it’s not what he wants right now.

“Start with one,” Danny repeats, and Claude gets quiet. Danny’s slowed his hand on his own dick, mostly out of necessity—he wants this to last, wants to make the most of it. Claude’s always eager, but he’s not always this obedient, and, though the setting isn’t ideal, Danny’s going to take his time and enjoy it.

Claude lets out a groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, and says, “Danny, I—I _need_ more, you have to let me have another.”

“Greedy,” he chides. He can almost picture Claude’s shameless smirk: _greedy_ never works as scolding, because Claude never denies it.

“Yeah,” Claude confirms, breathy and eager, and Danny chuckles. “Yeah, I am, so _please_ —”

Danny’s sped up again, unable to keep himself in check. “Fine,” he says. “Three. Now.” There’s a cut off gasp from Claude and then a low-drawn out moan. Danny runs his thumb over the head of his dick and smirks. “Did you do it?”

“Of course I did it,” Claude says, breathless. “I miss—I miss you, wish you were here doing this to me—”

“You always get too excited and want to fuck _me_ when I’m there,” he reminds him, grinning even as Claude lets out this broken whimper.

“Well, right now, all I want is your fucking cock in me,” he says, bitchy and pouty and really just obviously turned on, and Danny fucking _adores_ him. “God, I—fuck—”

“That’s better,” Danny says lightly, twisting his fingers around his dick and tilting his head back against the wall. “I don’t want you coherent. If you can talk, you aren’t fucking yourself the way I want you to be.”

“Danny,” Claude says weakly, and then moans, sharp and immediate. 

“Three fingers?” Danny asks, just to check.

“I—yes—oh, fuck, Danny, just like you told me,” Claude says, and Danny makes a low, satisfied noise. Sometimes Claude likes to pretend he isn’t obedient, like he isn’t completely easy and willing for Danny, and sometimes Danny likes to fight it. Now, though, he wants exactly what he’s getting—wants Claude to follow his orders, do what Danny asked because _Danny_ asked.

He tightens his grip around his own cock and murmurs, “Good, Claude. You’re so good for me.” He knows he’s not going to make it much longer, now—he’s dragged it out longer than is safe or reasonable already, and as much as he loves the thought of Claude on his bed, legs spread and fingers in his ass, writhing and whimpering for Danny, he knows he can’t hold onto it forever.

Even so, when Claude makes this noise, a telling cry that sounds as though it’s been wrenched from his lips, and gasps out, "Danny, I'm-- I'm gonna,” Danny decides he’s not quite through with him yet.

"Don't," he says, a little harsher than he means to. "Hands above your head."

Claude makes a wounded noise.

"Did you do it?" Danny asks, and Claude mumbles something that sounds like assent. The thought of him that way, cock hard and ass so suddenly fucking _empty_ —Danny could come across his chest, maybe, or straddle his shoulders and shoot in his mouth, or he could just fucking get his cock in him and fill him up with his come.

Claude moans again, and Danny realizes somewhat abruptly he's spoken aloud.

"Which do you want, then?" he asks, and he very nearly doesn't recognize his own voice, hoarse with want.

"In me," Claude says immediately, broken and desperate—Danny pictures him, on his back, arms above his head, needy and hard.

“It would be so easy to just slide into you, wouldn’t it?” he murmurs, fucking into his own hand and listening to the faraway moans Claude’s still letting out. “You’ve been so good for me, fucking yourself so nice.”

He’d be willing to bet money that Claude’s just rocking his hips up into nothing, trying to find relief that won’t be there. He wishes he could see him, wishes he could watch the way his body tenses and shakes when Danny touches him, see his thighs quiver from the strain of holding open.

“And you’d look so pretty with my come leaking out of you,” he adds, voice low, and Claude whimpers. The sound and the buildup and the pressure of his hand all come together at once, and Danny grunts and loses it, spills across his hand.

He's still getting a hold on himself, breathing hard, when Claude breaks the silence, pleads, "Danny."

Danny's drawn this out for a while, but he's feeling kind. "Yeah, love," he says, voice going gentle. "Touch yourself. Come for me."

It's moments later that Claude is crying out, a near unintelligible mix of _yes_ and _fuck_ and _Danny_ , and Danny pictures him finally getting his hand back on his dick, shaking apart with his orgasm, covering his chest with his come.

They're both quiet for a long moment, Claude collecting himself and Danny wiping his hand clean with some tissue, when Claude says, sounding sleepy, satisfied, and the tiniest bit wistful, "I'm gonna see you soon."

Danny's still a little drunk, but he's pretty sure the warmth in his chest is from Claude and not the champagne. "Yeah," he says, soft and fond. "Soon."

"And you're going to come in my ass," Claude adds, and it startles Danny into a laugh.

"I'm going to do anything you want me to do," he promises. "Kiss you, first of all."

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding pleased. "I'd like that." He pauses, then says again, "Congratulations. It was a great series."

"I love you," Danny says.

Claude huffs out a little laugh. "I love you too. Now go, someone probably realized you're missing."

Danny's vaguely hesitant to hang up, honestly, but he supposes phone sex in bar bathrooms doesn't allow for much afterglow. "I'll see you soon," he says instead of goodbye, and Clause makes a happy, sleepy noise and hangs up.

When Danny steps out of the stall, Pricey is bent over the sink, splashing water on his face.

"Shit," Danny says.

"PK sprayed champagne on me," Pricey says.

He finishes up, pats his face dry with a paper towel. For the tiniest of moments, Danny thinks there's been a miracle and he hasn't heard _anything_.

"Say hi to Giroux for me," he says.

The moment shatters. Fuck.

"It was just—" Danny says, a little desperately.

Pricey shrugs. "Don't worry about it. Bar sex is fun. You might want to clear out soon, actually, I think PK's feelin it tonight."

He walks out the door as cavalier as ever, and Danny's jaw drops.

(Next time he's on the phone with Claude, hungover, embarrassed, and in the privacy of his home, he recounts this brief and horrifying conversation, and Claude laughs so hard he cries.)

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://peeksy.tumblr.com) for more hockey shenanigans!


End file.
